Sandbox Retrospects

a crush in Montpelier

I’ll take your hand; we’ll take this burg one stop light at a time.
Cracked concrete squares fondle our shoes as we walk down east Huntington Street.
When we find the end of this lengthy sidewalk, we’ll have to make up what comes next.

The coffee shop in town may serve as a time-passer-by until tonight’s show.
One leg crossed over the other, peaking over your book to see my eyes.
Catching a glimpse of that hamlet smile of yours,
No amount of struggle could keep me from doing the same.

Hypnotized by every syllable that passes through your seductive lips,
a sanctuary in which my tongue longs to rest.
Striving to look at something other than you proves to be pointless.
Keeping contact with my eyes to the side of your face.

Perhaps after the show we’ll embrace the night in it’s true glory,
And sleep when the sun rises

written on 01-19-11

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a dumb “d” ditty

Darn, ditsy, dumb women,
Don’t appreciate dry linen.
The dos and don’ts of washing clothes,
Dreadfully doesn’t distract from hoes.

Dastardly men, and dumbfounded boys,
Dream of drumming, and playing with toys.
Drums for boys, and drills for men,
Destroying a tree house to build it again.

Daisies do appeal to me,
Much like my dinky.
I dunk it in a drum of lotion,
And do love to dream of the ocean.

I dreadfully decline to continue this ditty,
The deal is, it’s dull, and did I mention my dingy?

written on 01-16-11

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In a cigar box

In a box made before my time, I keep a collection of aged mysteries.
The beauties of old, very much alive in an old Ben Bey box.

Eight basketball cards from my home team,
Possibly traded to a ten year old for a card of increased value.

An old print of a crashed car.
What happened to cause this accident?
Was it an accident? Possibly a drunk.

A key and metal button. Who owned these items?
I wonder if it was a gentleman with class and style,
Or could it have been an old woman, widowed by the war.
They now hold that wonder while resting in an old tin
Aspirin container, in my cigar box.

Mountain Dew and Cream Soda bottle caps.
Somebody popped the tops to they’re bottles,
And tossed them to the street, much like we do now.
They’re bottle caps have become a treasure in my
Old cigar box.

Three Muncie postcards. One sent by a lady named Emily in 1941.
Stored and forgotten, found its way into my old cigar box.

An old, matchless, Kings Island book of matches.
Again, something that has just been tossed away.
It has an unknown history,
which is a great reason for it to be in my old cigar box.

Two old books,
One is “Peter Pan”, printed by Tempo Books with no date.
The other is “Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine” from May of 1976.
Fourteen years before I was born. They are both kept in my old cigar box.

An old black and grey scarf,
Also having an unknown history,
Resides wrapped around two books in my old cigar box.

Newer items include A Chicago postcard from my best friend,
Pictures from around 4 years ago,
Two audio playlists and a movie.

They will also grow old in my cigar box.

written on 01-19-11

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Strategic Warfare

Curled fingers form a fist, reacting to her letters.
If a top five were fabricated for the old one-two,
Her name would drop anchor with the first bullet.

Afghanistan is a bitch, much like this girl.
A soldier fighting two wars, one in sand and snow,

The other on a keyboard.

Six months until completion.
Six months until grand happiness.

Six months of fighting verbal ammunition
Aimed straight at my face.

Watching six hands move around two painted faces,
Can’t aid time to skip any faster.

Though it seems to help the issue,

For a minute at least.

written on 01-21-11

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Fool’s Paradise

Rotor blades pierce the January breeze loud enough to shatter my nightmare.
Realizing the untruth that controlled my mind,
The night is blocked.

So starts another day at war.

As the vibrations fade, my eyes struggle to regain perception.
In their success, I once-over my room.

Every morning, wagering my life against death,
I walk out the door.
The sharp breath of earth fills my lungs,
Awakening every muscle in my body.

I never thought the clause I signed
Would have landed me here.

Anticipation builds for the return home.

A fool’s paradise remains my home,
Until a birds view of the city reflects in my gaze.

written on 01-22-11

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rocksandrockets

My rock ricochets three times
Before falling prey to Pretty Lake.

Let’s throw back a few good times,
And play some cards.
We won’t remember who wins in the morning.

It won’t matter.

Three days into July,
Anticipating the fourth.

Our boat, impersonating drift wood.

Neglectful to anything
Interrupting our Book&Music conference.

Ty looks rather silly
In that girls glasses.

In preparation for proof that fire works,
Take a seat in the elephant inner tube.

I don’t think I’ll ever get the taste of
Live minnow out of my mouth.

written on 01-23-11

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a loss for words

Somebody help me please.

I’m lost in a pool of words forming incoherent babbling.

One or two beautiful sentences pitch camp on the back of my tongue,
Choking the life out of me.

Reluctant to anything I try,
They remain slowly slipping toward the bottom of my throat.

Again, I swallow my words in an attempt to please your eye.

It only seems useless to stare at this white abyss any longer…

written on 01-24-11

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flowers on pluto

Flowers extend their petals to pick your hand,
Increasing elevation from grass to cheek.
Painted fingernails, a stems perfect accent.

A still shot, the culprit of a young lads dream.
Past times and pictures become
Blueprints for every night flights

Into space.

Screw that shooting star; I’ll make a wish on Pluto.
I need assurance that you’ll take my hand,
When it’s offered.

written on 01-24-11

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computer-chair ambitions

List your top five memories of Indiana,
In chalk on those Chicago streets.

You string your hair behind your ear,
Almost as neat as my striped shirt.

We’re kind of the coolest kids ever.

A few months and I’ll be headed your way.

Until then,

Impounded across the world,
Constantly thinking of you.

Like counter-topped glasses, I stare at this screen,

Awaiting your reply.

written 01-26-11

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silent film in new castle

Circular spin on this marry-go-round,
Your face is a slideshow.

Five minutes and i’ll be leaving this place.

Back to muncie,
An hours’ drive.

Black jeep and stellar tunes.

Could you have been any coyer?
Two hands and ten fingers meant nothing without words.

I’m leaving with no number and all I know is,
You wore Band-Aids on your toes in those black poke dot flats.

written on 01-26-11

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tina saw my butt

Cards and wine, the game of kings.
Sips and gulps influence on-the-spot rules.
Fewer clothes and more drinks.

Result of a dare; I’m in a tree,
sowly advancing toward the top.

The tree and I,

tipsy.

Gazing at pants and briefs,
strewn about the yard.

Three variations of a laugh
are sounding from the porch.

To end my quest,
I police up my clothing.

Re-entering the house,
my turn is at hand.

Revenge through a stopwatch make out.

written on 01-28-11

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she takes a bow

Fingers,

smooth along bruised levers
of a has-been grand.

Telling her life story with trimmed nails,
in a sequence of petals and keys.

Her right,
lively and free-spirited.

Her left,
strict and formal.

Together author an autobiography,
of artists who once sat on that same bench.

As we understand their past,
due to a carefully crafted story line,

thunder emerges,

hands crash as waves into rocks,

seats are abandoned.

written on 02-05-11

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